


music, flood my heart.

by theadamantdaughter



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Soulmates, Voltron Valentine's Exchange, shance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadamantdaughter/pseuds/theadamantdaughter
Summary: Lance attends the London Symphony Orchestra with a singular hope: this time, he’ll hear the music.





	music, flood my heart.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeathByStorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathByStorm/gifts).



> Hi lovely, I’m so sorry I’m so late. There was a mix-up on my end with the due dates, and I cannot apologize enough. Either way, I really did not want to rush this, so I still took the full week I asked for as an extension and created you a soulmate Shance au. I hope you enjoy!

Stepping from the chilly streets into the Queen’s Hall opened a pocket of warmth in Lance’s chest.

 

The rattle of car engines and bursts of taxi horns faded beneath a collective purr, a hundred voices clamoring together to fill the main parlor. Cigar smoke drifted from the lounge, chased out by the laughter at the bar. The woman congregated in clouds of wafting perfume, whispering and rubbing their hands together to combat the late winter air.

 

It was a usual scene at the Orchestra, always the same before the show began. Happiness spilled through Lance like a candle’s flame in a dark room, lighting him up from the inside out. He tucked his hand just inside his coat, laid it over the thump of his heart like he could somehow capture the life in that steady beat. The other curled more tightly around the bouquet of white carnations he carried.

 

That was it.

 

The excitement. The thrill. The nervous tension.

 

Somehow, this Hall eased it. Somehow, this Hall filled him with golden delight, with eager anticipation. He knew the moment the orchestra began, it may end in disappointment. He may leave when the production finished, not having heard a note of the symphony performed— or, he may depart with the sweet, _sweet_ notes echoing in his ears, with the knowledge that _someone_ to cross his path in the prior week was his soulmate.

 

The happiness that he envied, the beautiful melodies that brought smiles to those around him, would be his. The emptiness it was to live a life without music would be through.

 

Hopeful, Lance exchanged his outer coat, made of thick, grey tweed, for a token from the coat closet's attendee. The flowers, he kept close, tucked under his arm as he navigated the bustling crowd. He smoothed his hair back, checked his reflection in the gold plates framing the theatre doors, and found bright, blue eyes looking back at him.

 

Good. He only read positivity, enthusiasm. He smiled slightly at himself, pink lips curled at their delicate corners, and held that smile as he greeted the usher.

 

“Welcome, Mister McClain.”

 

He bent his head slightly, accepting a crisp playbill in exchange for his ticket. “Raymond. Nice to see you.”

 

“As always.” The usher checked his seating arrangement, then waved him down the steps. “I assume you know your destination?”

 

“As always,” Lance repeated.

 

His smile kept its place down to his seat, matched the surrounding grins, the chatter that flitted above the other patrons. He tucked the carnations safely behind his feet and studied those around him.

 

Sometimes, Lance felt he could practically be one of them. He could be awaiting the violins that would soon fill the painted, dome ceiling with their elegant strings, be anticipating the burst of noise, the boom of the drums when the orchestra began its opening piece.

 

Lance knew of the _boom_ because he felt it rumble through his seat.

 

Turning his attention from a couple close by, he studied the playbill given to him by Raymond. The exterior was a crisp, matte black, with silver leafing that added a glossy shimmer to each of the stamped letters: _of Starlit Dreams._ Inside, the playbill listed the many members of the orchestra, their position and instruments in neat script. The composer was one he’d seen a dozen times prior, Takashi Shirogane; a decorated war hero and an up-and-coming prodigy.

 

Or so he was told.

 

However, his momentary despair didn’t stop his heart from stuttering over the name. What was undoubtedly beautiful music came from a beautiful man, one Lance happily paid to see time and time, again. His back, the sharp undercut; Takashi was a dream, and the way he filled out his tuxedo— his smile reappeared, topped off with a slight blush.

 

Logically, Lance knew there was no sense to his crush. Sure, the man was attractive, but the _pining_ was nonsensical. And right behind logic, reality went down like bittersweet pill that left him both happy for the composer and melancholic for a soulmate of his own.

 

 _Soon,_ he thought, settling further in the plush chair.

 

The gold-plated arm rests curled elegantly at the ends, fitting perfectly in his palms when he set the playbill aside. The red velvet beneath him was soft, caught his suit pants when he shifted to create an odd friction. It was all familiar, each and every detail. It was all exciting and nerve-wracking and part of the experience he’d tuck away once this journey reached its end.

 

Same as he’d tuck away this lust for Shirogane.

 

For now, he would admire. That was perfectly permissible. For now, Lance would act as though Takashi were his soulmate, and he was the adoring partner, always seated in the same place for his shows, no matter how repetitive or boring such a routine risked becoming.

 

The thought made his stomach flip-flop. He squirmed slightly when the lights flickered, then dimmed. The few patrons left standing broke away from their conversations, finding their seats in the approaching dark. The crowd quickly hushed, then the curtains drew back with hardly a sound.

 

There was only a piano at center stage, a grand, massive thing dominating the space and glistening black in the spotlight.

 

At the edge of the light’s ring, movement caught the audience's attention. Takashi Shirogane stepped into it, his hand tipping to the crowd, white glove standing out vibrantly. He bobbed his head at the welcoming applause, then moved aside as a violinist joined him, her silvery hair falling in waves down her back. After a joint bow for the audience, the composer skirted around the piano to sit on the bench.

 

His hand poised over the keys. The violinist raised her instrument into position.

 

Lance held his breath.

 

He watched Takashi’s fingers fall, watched his foot hit the pedals below. He followed the draw of the violinist’s bow, hoped and prayed and _maybe the piano’s notes were too faint, maybe the piece hadn’t yet begun, maybe…_

 

...nothing.

 

Silence.

* * *

 

He exited the toilets with half a mind to leave the theatre all together, but the idea made him feel criminal.

 

In the past, Lance always stayed. No matter the outcome of his escapade, he stayed. He would thank the performers, pass out each and every one of the flowers as a token of his gratitude. These were artists, after all; creatives. They poured their soul into their work and a living was hard enough to come by. The least he could do, in any case, was demonstrate his support them, properly.

 

But the taste in his mouth was bitter. He eyed a waste basket as he walked by, envisioned the carnations poking from—

 

“Enjoy the symphony?”

 

Lance snapped his eyes up just in time to avoid the person directly in front of him. A man, he noted, collecting himself with a shake of his head. With trim hips and a muscular chest, broad shoulders and one black sleeve knotted where his elbow should be.

 

His gaze completed its ascent, stopping on bright, grey eyes and a shock of white hair that fell into them.

 

“You’re—”

 

“—Takashi Shirogane,” he said, extending his left arm in a greeting.

 

Lance did the same, shaking his hand and hardly containing a tremor at the warmth that sparked between them. It felt natural; he was giddy at the chance to meet the man of the hour, but at ease. It surprised him, in the best way possible. His smile returned, and the one Takashi wore brightened.

 

“I go by Shiro with most… thanks to one commanding officer, in particular.”

 

He chuckled, testing the name for himself. “Shiro.” The moniker was pleasant on his tongue. “I’m Lance. Lance McClain.”

 

“And American, as well.”

 

“Guilty.”

 

A small smile tugged at the man’s lips. “What brings you here, Lance?”

 

“To the show?”

 

“To London,” Shiro clarified, “but I suppose I’m curious about the show, seeing as you always come and sit in the same row.”

 

Lance flushed. “You’ve noticed.”

 

“It’s hard not to.”

 

“Right, well…” He shifted the bouquet of flowers to his other hand, fidgeting as he looked down at them. He could sense the heat on his cheeks, but Lance couldn’t be bothered to care. “The war brought me here after the bombings. The efforts following kept me, like most. Then, I thought I’d stay to study.”

 

Shiro raised a brow, slipped his hand into his pocket and canted his head towards the Hall’s wide doors. “What’s your interest?”

 

“Biology.” Lance stepped in time beside him, taking the tip of Shiro’s chin as a signal to follow.

 

“An challenging field. Do you like it?”

 

“I love it. It’s been wonderful, following in the footsteps of so many great minds.” Excitement flooded him now. Takashi Shirogane was interested? Takashi Shirogane, a legend by his own right, was walking with him, following him towards the front of the parlor? If this was a dream, Lance would kill the man to wake him. “I also own a bath shop that’s done well for itself.”

 

“Bath shop?”

 

“Yes, uh- Lush & Lavender? It’s…” he paused, searching for the right explanation. “I sell soaps and other things. Perfumes, oils for the water and the skin. Bath salts.” Stopping at the front of the parlor, an inconvenience for those filtering out, Lance turned a sly smile upwards. “Perhaps I'm ahead of my time, but have you ever tried a face mask?”

 

He took Shiro’s confused look as his answer.

 

“I’ve created quite few. Honey and lemon, very delicious and wonderful for broken skin. Coconut, very soothing, smells amazing. There’s another I designed, with avocado. It leaves your skin smooth as silk. I’m hoping it will be the next hot item.”

 

Shiro blinked at him, head tilted. “Are you implying I need one?”

 

“What? No. No, no, no—” He spluttered, chuckled awkwardly as a hand raked through his slicked-back hair. “I- I’m only saying- Your skin is love—” A laugh cut him off. Lance closed his mouth, frowning at the other man as it dawned on him. “And to think, I was prepared to offer you free products.”

 

“I would hate to receive special treatment.”

 

Lance shrugged. “I’m not sure it would be special, considering tonight’s composition.”

 

It was. He meant that, despite the silence of it. The evidence of its grandeur was heard in the gasps and applause throughout the performance. It remained firmly in place all over the faces of the departing patrons, became more obvious with the looks of adoration cast in Shiro’s direction, from men and women alike.

 

He envied them, envied their smiles and the fingers clinging to waists and coat sleeves and each other’s hands. But, at least his compliment made Shiro blush prettily.

 

“I’m happy you think so. This piece proved difficult for me, more so than others.”  

 

“Really? I never would’ve known.”

 

“It must be true what they say, then. We are our own worst critic.” His mouth twisted ruefully. Lance didn’t understand it, and he didn’t have a chance to ask before Shiro pulled his hand from his pocket, an gold, antique watch clasped in his fingers. He flicked it open, hummed disdainfully. “I’m afraid it’s that time… my associates will be irritable if I linger much longer.”

 

Lance’s face fell slightly; embarrassing as that was. “I should make my way home."

 

They both remained still a moment, eyes locked and color spreading on their cheeks. The stain of light pink did wonders for Shiro’s complexion… not that he wasn’t already beautiful. Lance forced himself to look away, down at the flowers as if he’d suddenly remembered them.  

 

“Thank you for the wonderful evening, Takashi.” He held the bouquet out between them, light and airy and on the cusp of floating away. “I hope you know what your music does for people.”

 

Smiling softly, Shiro took the flowers.

 

“Someday, I hope to hear it for myself.”

 

And like that, he turned on his heel, leaving Lance to stare after him.

* * *

Two weeks came and left, filled with Lance cursing himself for the constant presence of Shiro in his head.

 

It was silly, _childish,_ to be thinking of a man so obviously out of reach. Yet, he couldn't stop himself, couldn’t keep himself from skimming the paper and walking by the Queen’s Hall. Every time, he told his heart it was a foolish idea, and every time, his heart forced him to swallow the sour disappointment when Shiro’s name wasn’t listed in the schedule.

 

Lance knew he wasn’t absent for good. He may’ve been touring, may’ve gone home to visit his friends or family. There was even the chance he was pouring himself into something new. The orchestra in London was a regular stop for Shiro. He had a throng of admirers and a swarm of support. Lance just wanted to see Shiro sooner than next month or next spring, whenever the composer returned to the city.

 

To reign his wandering thoughts, Lance buried himself in work at his shop. He had his classes as well, long days at the lecture halls and evenings spent over books and research, but Lush & Lavender was the best combatant. Some of the work was physical, unloading shipments and restocking his shelves; other bits were mental, totaling up purchases and balancing the register.

 

And, every hour of it was normal, routine, perfectly distracting and tiring until the bell above the door chimed and he completed a sharp sweep into a brush pan at his feet.

 

“Shiro?”

 

He did a double take. Surely, the same man from two weeks prior, the one who stood broad and tall and _smashing_ in a black tuxedo, wasn’t in his shop looking so casual in tan trousers and white button-down. His newsboy cap kept his black-and-white hair under control, held the lighter frock of bangs in a gentle swoop across his face.

 

Lance gawked, realized he was doing so, and straightened himself immediately. His hands smoothed down the front of his dirty frock. “What— how can I help you?”

 

“I don’t need help. I don't...” The words were too loud, abrupt and jarring. Shiro seemed to realize that, clamped his lips together and frowned. “I…” He tried again, stopping with a short breath. He reached up to remove his cap, wrung it in his hand. “I don’t know how to approach this without sounding wildly insane, but I need you to come with me.”

 

“Come with you?"

 

“Yes, to the symphony hall. I need you listen to something.”

 

His brow furrowed.

 

“I- I don’t know what I can possibly do for you there. I—”

 

“You can’t hear it,” Shiro cut him off. “The music, you couldn’t hear it the other night, could you?”

 

Feeling somewhat like a fraud, Lance shook his head, even more perplexed.

 

Something in Shiro’s expression was almost desperate. The easy smile on the night they met, that melodic laugh he had, they were gone. Even his eyes lacked their shine, the shine he’d conjured up in his thoughts time and time again, but Lance thought he saw… _hope?_

 

A deep breath filled Shiro to the point of bursting. Lance studied him, the full expanse of his ribs, the lift in his shoulders. Quickly, everything collapsed, deflated as the air left Shiro’s lungs.

 

“I can’t either,” he said, catching his lip. Then, softly, looking down at his feet. “Or… I _couldn’t.”_

 

“You...? You’ve written so many masterpieces.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You’re one of the greatest—”

 

“I know, Lance.” Shiro’s eyes snapped to him, hard as metal, then melting. “My parents taught me as a kid. I learned how to play without hearing it, saw all the joy it brought them. Then, I lost them at Pearl Harbor. I lost my arm in the fight. I have nothing else to give and I _feel_ them when I’m playing, I feel the melody. I never needed to hear it.”

 

His hand, still clasping his hat, curled over his heart.

 

“Then, I met you… and now I have.”

 

Lance’s fingers tightened around the broom handle. “You think it’s because of me?”

 

“There’s no one new in my life,” Shiro said, “except for you. You're the only one I talked to outside of the orchestra." 

 

Swallowing, Lance set the broom aside. His hands shook, made it difficult to prop the wooden handle against the register. His legs felt weak and wobbly, forced him to suck in a steadying breath before his eyes darted across the floor and up Shiro’s body.

 

How was it possible that _he_ hadn’t noticed? That he hadn’t happened across a single note between their first meeting and this?

 

God, he wanted it to be true. He wanted Shiro to be right.

 

“Let me lock up,” Lance told him. “I’ll come with you.”

* * *

The driver, a peppy, older man with an orange mustache, slowed to a stop in front of the quiet Queen's Hall. It wasn’t entirely dark inside, but the usual splendor lacked at half past three.

 

Shiro left the back seat first, holding out his hand for Lance.

 

“Thanks, Coran,” he said as he closed the door, keeping Lance’s fingers clutched tight in his.

 

The pitter-patter of his heart increased to a raging storm, so loud it drowned out the click of his heels up the stone steps, across the marble floors of the empty parlor. There wasn’t a soul around, and as they passed the ghostly ticket booths, the cloudless cigar bar, Shiro explained the rehearsal process and mentioned the show he had in a week.

 

“The same one?” Lance asked.

 

“No, something different.” The look he got, small and tentative, held something of a secret in it. Lance tilted his head, prepared to press for more, but Shiro tugged him along.

 

They entered the auditorium with Shiro just a step or two ahead. He let Lance’s hand go, but kept moving until he reached the stage. The piano greeted them, as dominantly black as the first show, and the violinist who opened with Shiro leaned against it casually.

 

“This is Allura Melenora. First violin, an excellent cellist, and my closest friend,” Shiro introduced her, stopping near the first row of seats.

 

“Closest, _nosiest_ friend,” Allura clarified. She came to the edge of the stage, a simple a-line dress brushing just below her knees, and bent down to shake Lance’s hand. “Shiro hasn’t gone a day without mention of you since _of Starlit Dreams.”_ Straightening up, Allura smoothed her dress. “All good things, of course… so long as you see endless despair as—”

 

Shiro cleared his throat loudly.

 

“What?” Allura asked. “You were _miserable_ _,_ and not without good reason.” Her smile returned to Lance. “We take a few days off between a symphony and our next round of preparation, so Takashi wasn’t immediately aware of all that’d changed for him. Although, I’m not sure if his temperament was worse before or after he knew.”

 

She pursed her lips thoughtfully, a chuckle behind them.  

 

Lance was too nervous to join. He licked his lips, turned to look at Shiro, whose eyes were locked on him.

 

Watching for his reaction, no doubt, but Lance kept his face schooled. As badly as he wanted this to be true, he wasn’t so foolish as to count on it. That would only lead to heartbreak, and this time? Lance wasn’t so sure he’d shake it properly.

 

A quiet, impatient sound left Allura. Shiro glanced up at her, then gestured at the fourth row back, the second chair in, where Lance always took up residence. “Will you sit? Please?”

 

“You’re going to play?”

 

“I am.”

 

“He wrote a new piece after he met you,” Allura offered, prompting Shiro to roll his eyes. "It's for our new show. And, for you, of course." 

 

“Are you going to ruin everything?”

 

“It’s what I do.”

 

Lance huffed, “It might not even matter.”

 

“Maybe not… but I have a good feeling about you, love.”

 

Smiling ever-so-sweetly, Allura turned her back on them both. A cello waited for her, and she waited for Shiro as he hoisted himself onto the stage, taking his place at the piano.

 

He looked stunning behind it, serene as he rested his hand on the black-and-white keys, his foot on the pedal below. And, without the harsh spotlight washing him a pale white, the color on his cheeks stood out, a gentle pink beneath peaceful eyes and dark brows. Regardless of that first, fateful note, Lance knew he would always marvel at this man’s beauty, at his ability.

 

His chair creaked slightly. Lance met Shiro’s gaze with an apology, settling at last, and nodded.

 

It was gut-wrenching. There was no other way to describe it. Every strand of hair on his body stood up on end; every fiber, every cell, every signal within him felt like a raw, jagged edge.

 

A look passed between Shiro and Allura. The count.

 

Two, three, _four._

 

Shiro moved with the first chord, every bit of him changed by the sound—

 

—the sound.

 

Lance heard it, felt it fill the air and descend upon him like a bursting cloud. So clear. So crisp. Almost cold as it whispered down his spine, fading into the next, and the next. He shivered. No— he was trembling, quaking with an emotion he couldn’t quite describe.

 

Joy. Fear. Relief.

 

Each and every one poured through him, shook him to the core with the sheer beauty of the song. The hope in it. The happiness. The years of wanting and the feeling that something was truly beginning.

 

When Allura drew the bow across the strings, bringing the cello’s rich sound into the melody, tears streamed down his cheeks.

* * *

 “How can I be so complete,” Lance mused, “and feel so empty?”

 

"It's a lot to handle." Shiro laughed beside him. “First, all the new sounds, then... having to contend with your soulmate. The feeling eases. Slowly.”

 

“You too?”

 

He nodded, fingers tapping on his knee.

 

Allura had stepped out, leaving the pair in the auditorium to talk. Unfortunately, Lance felt he was short on words, rendered speechless, really, but the knowledge that he had his soulmate, and his soulmate was the Takashi Shirogane. One moment he worried he’d never find his person; the next, he worried he didn’t measure up.

 

“I’m no one special,” he warned Shiro. “I’m just a man with a shop and someday, a degree. I’m not renowned conductor or famous composer or honored hero—”

 

“So?” Shiro posed, eyes boring in him.

 

Lance thought he could see right down to the depths of his soul, to the torn edges left the music, to the shards of his heart that were broken and raw and stitched back together by every note in Shiro’s song. He swallowed. Shiro took his hand, pulling it into his lap.

 

“I don’t want you to be anything you’re not. I want you to be Lance McClain, the man who brings flowers to the same show he sees every week, the man who’d come with a near stranger claiming to be his soulmate.”

 

A smile cracked across Lance’s face.

 

“It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”

 

“The flower thing? Yeah, it’s sweet, but completely odd.”

 

“The soulmate thing.” Lance knocked Shiro’s knee with his, then, softening, covered their entwined hands with his left. “Where do we even begin, Takashi?”

 

For a moment, Shiro stayed quiet. The auditorium seemed to echo with the piano, the cello, the thousands of notes played over and over. Lance wondered if he’d ever hear them all, if he’d ever be fully satisfied. But, catching Shiro’s eyes, he knew.

 

Standing, fingers grasping at the other's, Shiro stepped closed and pressed his lips to Lance’s brow.

 

“Right here,” he whispered. “We begin.”

* * *

 **Epilogue**   
_One Year Later_

 

The yellow envelope fell into the mailbox with a resounding thunk. That was it. It was done. Satisfied, Shiro released the metal handle and let the flap clank shut.

 

“Six to eight weeks,” he said, a cheery quality in his voice. 

 

Lance took Shiro’s hand when he offered it, his other cradling their baby’s bottom, hugging her closer in the harness wrapped around his chest. It’d been four months since they began fostering her, and Lance’s favorite thing were the ample opportunities to tease Shiro about never being more in love.

 

“You think we’ll get her? Keep her?”

 

“ _I'm_ keeping her. I don't know what you'll be doing." 

 

Fortunately, the love they shared for Akari was a mutual feeling. As much as Lance teased him, Shiro shot it back.

 

Keeping Lance’s hand held tight, he swooped in for a kiss on the baby’s fat cheek, offered a peck for Lance, then led them into the foot traffic. Despite the hurry around them, he maintained a leisurely pace. It was the first time they didn’t have to be early to the Queen’s Hall, the first time Shiro would be joining Lance in the audience since the private performance a year ago.

 

They were married now, solid and complete, and with their only stop on the way to the evening’s show marked off, they weren’t in a rush to do anything but enjoy one another. The evening was clear. The night was young. The future wrapped them up in promise.

 

“Will you teach her to write?” Lance asked, turning his head to obverse Shiro’s profile. His thoughtful smile still made Lance’s heart jump in his chest.

 

“I’d like to.”

 

“It’s how you found me.”

 

“Was it my music?” Shiro nudged him, grinning. “Or did I simply pick out the handsome man with flowers from the crowd?”

 

“Handsome." Lance answered. "I like that one." 

 

A laugh left them both. They slipped closer to one another, arms draped around waists, and cherished the peaceful walk to the Hall.


End file.
